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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29530452">Smile, My Dear</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe'>TheHuggamugCafe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soulmate AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Attempted Murder, Character Study, Dubious Morality, F/M, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Insanity, Murder, Possessive Behavior, Reader and human Alastor are NOT of sound mind, Reader-Insert, Reader’s married life with human Alastor, Set during the early 1930s, husband/wife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:00:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29530452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You know you’re never fully dressed without one!”</i>
</p><p>You knew that they would be his parting words to you in this life.</p><p>You’ve known ever since you escaped him on that fateful night, <b><i>barely</i></b>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soulmate AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Smile, My Dear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was my first Hazbin Hotel musing and also my first human Alastor musing.</p><p>I was in a mood when I started this last year, so it may not make much sense? Though I suppose if you were in Reader’s shoes in this scenario, your sense of normalcy would be profoundly disturbed.</p><p>But regardless, please do let me know what you think of this, dear reader.</p><p>Take care and enjoy reading this messed up piece!</p><p>Before I forget, a quick but most welcomed shout out goes to my marvellous friend, DragonsInkwell (Lafrenze), for assisting me with completing this musing! Much thanks, hon!</p><p>Lastly, I <i>still</i> do not own the name Alistair McCarthy; never have, never will. All of the credit and none of the blame goes to BambinaMio, author of The Man Who Put New Orleans To Rest.</p><p>1920s/1930s slang and meanings are as follows:</p><p>Big sleep/Big one: death.</p><p>Kick off: die.</p><p>Cheaters: glasses.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If there is such a thing as bittersweet irony, it can be found in both the present and past. For who else but you and the man you would, eventually, be blessed—and in some manner or another, cursed—to call your husband would be tied together? To be <em>soulmates</em>?</p><p>A red string of fate may have connected you to him, but that red string of intertwined destiny will forever be soaked in blood. As you stood at the altar on your wedding day, clad in white and blushing happily<em>… </em>As your eyes shone with tears as your husband slipped a beautiful gold band on your ring finger, exchanging his vows and promising <em>“forever, my dear” </em>with that sweet and charming grin curling his lips<em>…</em></p><p>You knew, oh, you <em>knew </em>that you would be marrying a monster.</p><p>A pure-hearted maiden would be willingly marrying the monster that almost robbed her of life, as easily as he breathed air into his lungs.</p><p>Honestly, in some sick and roundabout way, you were fine with that. You’re <em>still </em>fine with him being what he is: a monster. He cannot—<em>will not—</em>deny being what he is no more than you can close your eyes, cover your ears, and purse your lips and shake your head that no, <em>no</em>, <em><b>no</b></em>, your husband could never do such an awful and inhumane act like <em>taking the life of another</em>.</p><p>Because you’re <em>just as guilty as he is, pretending not to see the red stains on his clothing when he comes home from work, often with a deer carcass and a loaded rifle in his hands as he grins at you, shooting you in the heart with that charming smile that shows you his pearly whites</em>.</p><p>Because you <em>find yourself wondering one time too many if the blood is a deer’s or a person’s</em>, but you still<em> play the part of being a loving, devoted wife as you smile and nod and ask him how his day is. </em>You still<em> bare your teeth in a grin as you lord over the washing board, clutching a bar of soap and a damp cloth in your hands. </em>You still <em>pretend </em><em><b>everything is fine</b></em>. You still <em>play make believe</em>, and that <em>you’re </em><em><b>not married to the Devil himself </b></em><em>as you purse your lips, fussing over the </em><em><b>red stains</b></em><em> that stubbornly refuse to come off unless you scrub, scrub, and </em><em><b>scrub </b></em><em>to the point that your fingers are like prunes and your joints ache</em>.</p><p>If there is a God up there in that picturesque horizon of deep midnight blue and charcoal black, that expanse of twinkling stars, dark clouds, and the full moon winking back at you whenever your eyes meet its icy and lustrous glower, then you can’t help but to laugh, to chuckle at the bittersweet hand of irony He has dealt you. Because <em>it’s just so funny, so hilariously and dismally humourous</em>.</p><p>In what universe do you live in that you, a woman who narrowly escaped the clutches of the infamous New Orleans Slasher, would end up marrying the very man you are supposed to <em>fear just like your fellow townsfolk do?</em></p><p>You remember the night you met the wickedly renowned serial killer as though it was only yesterday.</p><p>You remember the way the nocturnal air kissed the skin of your hands, so sweetly and tenderly whispering over the exposed flesh of your neck.</p><p>You recall how the trees gently swayed in a breeze that was almost nonexistent, softly shaking leaves from their branches.</p><p>Your mind and all five of your senses are filled with the scent of the rain that fell earlier on in the day, a scent that is both crisp and refreshing as you took in more than your fair share of the clear evening air, smiling as the barely-there traces of freshly fallen rain tickles your nose and fills your lungs.</p><p>You remember the feeling of gooseflesh curdling your skin, pricking your nerves with <em>awareness </em>as you quietly clued in on the fact that <em>someone’s steps are walking in perfected sync with yours</em>, and then you thought <em>that shadow behind me isn’t mine</em>, and <em><b>that</b></em> thought was followed by <em>I’m such an idiot to cut through the woods, and this late at night!</em></p><p>Cold. The hand that gripped your wrist on that terrible night was cold. Ice cold. It was like Death himself had your life in the palms of his bleach-white, bony hands. Briefly, it crossed your mind that yes, walking through the woods at such a late hour in the evening was a really, <em>really </em>bad idea. You remember the way hot air tickled the nape of your neck and the frozen kiss of steel skimmed the warm, trembling flesh of your throat as it trailed almost lovingly over your jugular vein.</p><p>“<em>You shouldn’t be out by yourself and so late in the eve, my dear. Why, something <b>terrible </b>could happen to you!”</em></p><p>But in the here and now, it’s the way he puts his knife skills to work and <em>who </em>he’s using them on that matters. You should’ve known that tonight, of all nights, would not be a pleasant evening. The pounding on the door. The incessant barking of dogs. The harsh commands for both you and Alistair to come out with your hands up. You should’ve known that the door would be kicked in, baring the interior with a whisper of autumn’s breeze.</p><p>More importantly, you should’ve known how your husband would react.</p><p>A hunter will do whatever it takes to rid his feeding grounds of poachers, after all.</p><p>A glint of steel. A cold blade cutting through the darkness. A wet gurgle. A moist curse. <em>Red </em>bubbling to kiss rosy lips with a splash of crimson and red, <em>red</em>, <em><b>red </b></em>drips down the man’s chin. A chorus of angry shouts and slurs, condemning your husband to Hell as he stands over the dying officer whose neck he’s just sunk his hunting knife into.</p><p>He uses the shock, the brief anger, and the cold terror of the other men to <em>make damn sure </em>that the man bleeding all over the clean kitchen floor is dead. If he is going to Hell, he may as well make certain that he has company to keep down in that God-be-damned pit of hellfire, torment, and damnation and screaming.</p><p>For what feels like forever the only sounds that can be heard are the sound of flesh being torn, of a wet splatter that is so <em>wonderfully familiar to him</em>, and that <em>sweet, sweet hue of red </em>is growing to a bigger puddle, and <em>look, darling, look! See how</em> <em>shines so spectacularly</em> under the moonlight’s silver leer and <em>it’s wonderful! Isn’t it wonderful? Can’t you see how it’s soaking this charming gentleman’s clothing? Marvellous, is it not, my dear?</em></p><p>That hue of crimson is staining the kitchen floor that you’ve spent what feels like hours cleaning, scrubbing it down with a cloth, a mop and a bucket because you are <em>a</em> <em>good wife who patiently waits for him to come home every night </em>with <em>the kitchen table that is perfectly set, and with a plate of supper already waiting to be tucked into</em>.</p><p>Slowly, it dawns on him that you’re not<em> smiling that alluring little grin that reminds him that oh yes, New Orleans’ own personal devil is married to a living, breathing angel, </em>and he wonders<em> why you’re staring at him with that pale face, and wide eyes and trembling lips, and oh, oh no, you’re crying. Shh, shh. Don’t cry, my dear, this terrible ordeal will be over shortly</em>.</p><p>He wonders if he should <em>apologize for the crimson-soaked meat of the deer he’d hunted earlier in the week</em>, the same slab of <em>tender meat that you spent preparing for supper is now soaked in gravy with a side of mashed potatoes and red and oh dear, he’s truly ruined your appetite now</em>. He finds himself asking <em>was</em> <em>that hand always there? </em>And he wonders <em>where did those fingers come from? </em>Slowly, more soft mutters fall from his lips. He’s wondering if<em> this is normal </em>and <em>everything is fine, fine, </em><em><b>fine</b></em>. He quietly assures himself that he <em>just has to kill the other men</em>. He just has to <em>silence the growling, annoying mutts and clean this mess up, and then everything will be painfully boring again</em>. His whispering gets worse as he seems genuinely worried that<em> he’s ruined this perfect anniversary evening you’ve worked so hard to make for him and for you, hasn’t he?</em></p><p>Finally, it occurs to him that he probably <em>should say that he’s sorry for ruining the anniversary celebration with a body that he has to dispose of</em>, and that’s always<em> such a delightful little chore of his</em>, and <em>dirty clothes that you’ll have to pretend you don’t see soaking up that alluring shade of red that he loves to see spilling from tender flesh, be it an animal’s or a human’s</em>.</p><p>Because you’re a good, hard-working wife who <em>loves that charming white picket fence surrounding the house that your Daddy helped him build</em>, and he knows that you <em>love keeping everything neat and tidy, and he’s just made a disgusting mess of </em><em><b>everything</b></em>.</p><p>Because you’re a <em>dutiful spouse who likes a clean house</em>. Because <em>no man should get to look at his wife like she’s a warm, dripping piece of meat ready to be eaten, with or without the proper eating utensils because only slobs eat meat</em><em>without a fork and a knife</em>. And because<em> no man deserves to live to gloat about eyeing </em><em><b>his wife </b></em><em>with ill intentions, and no man worth his salt dares to have thoughts no proper gentleman should have about </em><em><b>his lawfully wedded spouse</b></em><em>, not if he has anything to say about it—</em></p><p>“Al!”</p><p>Suddenly, a voice breaks the unease. The same voice that shatters the tense silence—it is a soft voice, a female’s voice, a voice that is so, so much like the sweet tinkling of bells in a summer breeze—reaches his ears and his attention snaps to you, so fast and so quick that you expect to hear a sharp crack of bone from his neck.</p><p>For a moment and only a moment, there is a brief glimpse of eternity that passes by you and him: you, Y/N McCarthy, and your husband of three years, Alistair McCarthy.</p><p>There he stands, the cold silver glare of moonlight bathing him in dim luminescence as it shines in gently through the window adjacent to him. Shadows paint his blank, crimson-soaked visage in a terrifying leer as his eyes shine as he stares at you, and nothing and no one but you. His eyes… You love them; they are the perfect shade of a frozen lake in winter. They’re crystalline and dark, they remind you of the abysmal depths of a deep lake.</p><p>You can’t will back the chill that shoots down your spine.</p><p>You shiver. You <em>can’t help yourself</em>, no more than you can help yourself from looking at your husband.</p><p>You don’t know how he can possibly be any more beautiful than he is now, standing beneath the moon’s callous glow and splattered in that terrible hue of red.</p><p>But he is and you think you love the monster before you more.</p><p>Alistair is the first to break the silence, his dark and dangerous stare zeroing in on you as he approaches you in a few quick strides, staring down at you with that unfathomable expression that is beyond all possible description.</p><p>You want to get away, get away from him. You <em>should </em>get away from him. Your legs tingle with tension as a shot of adrenaline courses through your veins, your body is preparing you to start running, but where are you to run off to? You’re shaking from head to toe, much like a newborn fawn trying to walk; your breathing is shallow, rapid. You don’t know the swamps well enough to make a run for it, never mind that the woods aren’t familiar to you as much as they are to Alistair.</p><p>“Come, <em>ma biche</em>.”</p><p>You feel a vice of leather clamping ‘round your wrist. It’s tight and merciless, the way your spouse’s gloved fingers and palm wrap around your skin, yanking you forward without thought nor concern for the fact that you stumble over a mutilated carcass. Alistair doesn’t seem to care that you’ve just stepped on a dead man’s cold, bloody hand; he doesn’t seem to care that you’ve just stepped on a corpse’s torn open belly. He doesn’t care that you’re both stepping through a pool of blood, marking a path from the kitchen to the living room with crimson footprints.</p><p>You don’t answer. You don’t get the time to reply as you’re half led, half dragged to the side door. It’s kicked open by Alistair and a whisper of the evening air caresses your flushed face, soothingly kisses your perspiring crown.</p><p>It’s a blessing as much as it it’s a curse, the way the nocturnal breeze caresses your sweating skin, dusting your cheeks with colour as the icy needles nip at your skin.</p><p>But it’s something you don’t get to enjoy, not with Alistair all but hauling you around like he means to kidnap you or kill you, if he gets the chance to.</p><p>“Hurry! Before they get away!”</p><p>“Don’t let them escape!”</p><p>“Gut them like pigs the <em>second </em>they’re found!”</p><p>“Let the dogs rip the flesh from their bones!”</p><p>The hollers of the police officers fade for a brief spell and so does the incessant barking of the dogs. You’re forced to half run, half being yanked by the wrist by Alistair. The ground shifts from a dirt road to the sodden grounds of the swamp Alistair loves to hunt in, be it game or his fellow man.</p><p>You stumble, nearly tripping as your foot gets caught in a root sticking out from the ground. Your saving grace comes in the form of Alistair pulling you forward, stopping you from hitting the earth and with only mud and grass to serve as cushioning for your fall.</p><p>It seems like you two run forever until he finally slows to a halt. You’ve never been this deep in the swamps of New Orleans before, unlike him. It’s so dark that hardly any moonlight dares to peek through the occasional break in the ocean of trees<em>…</em></p><p><em>“</em>Alistair…?”</p><p>He seems to remember that oh yes, you’re here with him. The leather clad hand around your wrist tightens its hold; loathe as you are to admit, you can’t will back the flinch that pulls at your face.</p><p>
  <em>What’s he doing?</em>
</p><p>You blink, tilting your head to the side. You want to speak, you should speak. Your mouth opens and words form, but they slip off into the big one before they can even roll off of your tongue. You breathe a quiet sigh as he begins to tug you, leathery fingers and gloved palm still coiled around your wrist like a snake ready to strike.</p><p>You both wander further and further into the swamp. You wander so far in that you fear you’ll be swallowed into the encroaching darkness along with Alistair, but then a part of you wonders if that will be so terrible in the end. It will be a kinder fate than the one that’s surely waiting for you and him, once the police officers and the hounds have caught up.</p><p>A few minutes later he stops and you slow to a halt alongside him. You blink slowly, owlishly, bumping up your chin so that you’re looking up at him. His form has been reduced to a silhouette with shades and clothing breaking the illusion, the hallucination of him being one with the shadows the night so freely provides him with.</p><p>“Alistair?”</p><p>For a moment and only a moment, you catch a glint of steel. You chance a glance down, spotting that oh so familiar hunting knife he cherishes. You swallow; the gulp is thick. Is that why he’s dragged you so far into the woods? To introduce you to his handiwork with a knife, personally? To kill you?</p><p>The thought by itself is terrifying, horrid enough to threaten to chill your blood, but you don’t get the opportunity to dwell on it for much longer.</p><p>Because the barking is closer.</p><p>Because the angry voices are drawing near.</p><p>Because the noise of approaching footsteps are crystal clear.</p><p>“That’s far enough!”</p><p>“Stop this damn cat and mouse game!”</p><p>“Drop the knife and get on your fuckin’ knees, both of you!”</p><p>“Hmm, <em>no</em>. I don’t think we will!”</p><p>Shocked, you look up at your husband. But he isn’t looking at you. He’s looking straight at the officers and the snarling hounds accompanying them, the grin that’s easily charmed so many others in the past curling his lips. Behind his cheaters his dark eyes shine nastily; what is he up to now?</p><p>“Fine. Have it your way.”</p><p>“A shame you’re gonna let your pretty dame die alongside you.”</p><p>You suck in a breath, body seizing up as an electric current shoots through you. Fear may as well have curled itself into a fist and sucker punched you in the stomach. You want to double over. You want to toss your cookies and puke up your guts, if it’ll spare you from such a grisly fate.</p><p><em>That’s how we’ll die</em>…<em> Being ripped, torn apart by the dogs?</em></p><p>But you’ll die with Alistair and how can <em>that</em> be a bad thing?</p><p>“Smile, my dear!”</p><p>The words are the phantom hand of reality that you so sorely need, smacking you across the face. There’s no palm, no fully flayed fingers that have just met a vulnerable cheek; there’s no sting of pain crawling across your skin.</p><p>But his words are enough to make the writing on your wrist to flare up. They’re enough to make the written words crawl with a feeling not unlike <em>claws </em>dancing across your flesh; the ghostly touch is as light as a feather, but calls forth a vaguely itching sensation.</p><p>You swallow; the gulp is thick. It feels like there’s a stone lodged at the back of your throat. No matter how many times you try to swallow it, it stubbornly stays where it is. For a moment you swear that you forget to <em>breathe</em>. It’s only when your lungs burn, ache for precious oxygen that you remember to do so.</p><p>But the breaths you’re taking in are harsh and quick; you’re all but reeling, gasping for air. You hiccup, lips trembling as the murky waters lapping at the swamp’s shoreline registers in your ringing ears.</p><p>Your mouth is dry, your eyes are burning, you’re shaking from head to toe.</p><p>The sloppy chorus of approaching footsteps results in your teeth worrying over your bottom lip. The sight of raised hackles dripping with saliva and bristled fur standing on end sends a frosty chill to course through you, painfully slow.</p><p>“You know you’re never fully dressed without one!”</p><p>No sooner does the final word leave Alistair’s grinning mouth, the written words on your wrist are lightly pricked with unseen needles.</p><p>You knew that they would be his parting words to you in this life.</p><p>You’ve known ever since you escaped him on that fateful night, <em>barely</em>.</p><p>Whether it’s because of a bizarre twist of fate, or if it’s because of God or the Devil’s strange sense of humour that you survived an encounter with Alistair McCarthy on that evening, you aren’t sure. Honestly, a part of you will be better off living—and consequently, <em>dying—</em>without knowing the answer to that mystery.</p><p>It’s not like it matters to you in the present, and if you know your spouse as well as you think you do, it matters even <em>less</em> to him, if at all.</p><p>“I love you, Alistair McCarthy.”</p><p>The words tumble from your shaking lips. Your perception is nothing more than a blurry kaleidoscope of colours, shapes and surfaces. Your face and eyes are hot, but your body is cold. You’re chilled to the bone, feeling like you’ve fallen through a lake that’s frozen over in winter.</p><p>“Even if you don’t—<em>can’t—</em>love me back.”</p><p>You wonder if the words on <em>his </em>wrist are flaring up. You wonder if he even cares to acknowledge that it’s happening, but unlike him being able to read you like an open book, the same cannot be said for you when it concerns him.</p><p>He is an enigma to you, a puzzle you just can’t seem to put together no matter how hard you try.</p><p>Your mouth opens just as his eyes flick to you, the tooth-filled smile still curling his lips as your vision is suddenly yanked down. You hit the damp ground of the swamp, pain shooting up your leg as you clue in that a set of jaws are clamped around your leg. You’re bleeding, you know you are; the dog is biting too violently on your thigh for it to <em>not </em>be weeping crimson.</p><p>Red streams down your skin, stains your shoe and smears the canine’s hackles. Underneath the moonlight that’s dimly glaring in through the trees, you see your blood mixing with the mutt’s saliva. Your four-legged attacker yanks on you, harshly, and you instinctively claw at the ground, finger nails leaving streaks in the mud as you succeed in kicking up wet earth, bits of rock and grass.</p><p>A chorus of furious barking is the only warning you receive as another dog jumps in, its drooling maw finding purchase on your shoulder. You feel its teeth sinking in, tearing past the thin cotton material; you feel the teeth breaking the skin and making it bleed, splashing that awful red on your blouse.</p><p>You can’t think, good Lord help you, you can’t <em>think! </em>All you can do is look up and watch as a third dog jumps over you, opening its mouth and zeroing in on Alistair’s arm. Despite the smile that serves as his mask, he betrays a flinch of pain; you see red staining the sleeve of the shirt underneath his vest. His free hand, the hand holding his favourite hunting knife, is raised—but the timely arrival of a fourth dog quickly puts an end to your husband’s plans.</p><p>As its like-minded assailant did, its fanged maw locks around his second arm, dragging him to the ground, kicking and yelling for all he’s worth. But above all else, a sound begins to register in your frazzled brain. It’s a noise that is familiar and yet foreign to you.</p><p>It’s only when you notice that your throat is raw that you realize, <em>oh</em>, it’s you. It’s your screaming. Your wails shadow Alistair’s frenzied roars, sometimes syncing together in a maddening duet. <em>Now</em> you start to try and fight back, bringing your free leg back and forward, hoping to lace one of the dogs with a kick.</p><p>You succeed, feeling your blood soaked foot strike its chest, but it only serves to rile up the damned curs even more, if such a thing is possible. A choked sob slips from your lips, coated in a mess of spit and the tears leaking from your eyes, as one of the dogs decides to use your hip as its next chew toy.</p><p>
  <em>God… Just send me off into the big sleep already!</em>
</p><p>You whimper, you cry, your body is wrecked with a fit of emotions, but all the police officers can do is point at you and your husband with a finger. Laughing at you. Mocking you both. Crowing all about how they’ll toast over your sorry graves.</p><p>
  <em>Why…? Why can’t I kick off yet? Isn’t this punishment enough?!</em>
</p><p>Your silent calls go unanswered. If there is a God up in that wide open space above the Earth, then He clearly has no hand of salvation to offer you nor Alistair. You suppose it makes sense; why would God choose to be merciful to you now, much less your husband?</p><p>
  <em>Ask not for whom the bell tolls…</em>
</p><p>You shudder with resignation, face hitting the moist earth and besmirching it with mud and dirty swamp water.</p><p>
  <em>It tolls for thee…</em>
</p><p>You sniffle, dry heaving as a disgusting feeling that is both wet and arid clings to your throat. The front of you is totally saturated with the muggy ground, making you feel as filthy as the soapy water you used to get the blood out of Alistair’s clothing. Much like the way you closed your eyes, covered your ears, and lived in a dream that was really a living nightmare. How you ignored the way his victims asked, <em>pleaded</em> for you to help them. How you turned a deaf ear as their swan songs were quickly silenced once he tired of them.</p><p>
  <em>I’m… no better than him… Am I?</em>
</p><p>Your eyes sting as you slowly lose all resolve, all the drive to fight to your dying breath have been tossed out the window, so to speak. You don’t know, you don’t <em>want</em> to know when it began to happen, but you lost all feeling in your limbs. You exhale a low and languid sigh. You’re tired, so very tired; all you want to do is sleep and never wake up.</p><p>
  <em>I guess… I deserve this fate…</em>
</p><p>Alistair’s fallen silent, worryingly so. Even in the state you’re in, a pang of concern hits you. He hasn’t been a good husband and you haven’t been a good wife, but old habits will kick off and kick off hard with you and him, you suppose.</p><p><em>“</em>Ali… stair?”</p><p>You croak out his name, eyes straining to catch a glimpse of him where you last saw him and the dogs. They’re still there, huffing and snarling and gnawing on your husband’s body. You watch, watching and waiting in vain for what seems like forever until finally, <em>finally</em>, you see it. A twitch of his foot; a twitch of his gloved fingers.</p><p>“Ali… stair. Alis… tair.”</p><p>
  <em>He’s still alive…!</em>
</p><p>You reach out with a hand that drips red. Crimson rains down your fingers, down your wrist that’s marred with teeth marks, but you watch as his head turns to address you. He’s no better than you are right now, perhaps even worse. Blood runs its ugly course down his smiling visage; red besmirches his cheaters and licks the corners of his grinning mouth; crimson dyes his teeth.</p><p>It’s an image that will haunt you for eternity in the afterlife, if there is such a thing.</p><p>But that’s nothing compared to the empty look he spares you. He looks at your outstretched hand like it’s an alien life form to him, then he slowly flicks up his cold and uncaring glare so that it’s honed on you, bloodstained face and all.</p><p>Seeing him looking <em>away </em>from you makes your heart stop, and you fear—and <em>hope—</em>that you’ve been sent off into the big sleep from heart failure. Sadly, as everything that’s ever happened to you ever since meeting Alistair McCarthy, you aren’t allowed even <em>that </em>shred of mercy.</p><p>The pressure around your throat, the vice of heat and fur and teeth closing in, the way the fangs puncture your jugular vein, and how your final breaths taste like the blood you’re spitting up.</p><p>
  <em>I deserve this…</em>
</p><p>You slip into the welcoming embrace of nothingness, your vision slowly fading to black.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I promised myself that I would <i>not</i> start a brand spanking new series.</p><p>And then I quickly broke that promise I made to myself, from myself. <i>*Sweats*</i></p></blockquote></div></div>
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